


In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short missing scene from Strong Poison</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kylegirl

 

 

Lady Mary was in the Thames Foyer, staring down at something on the little table in front of her. The dull January light peered luminously in at the windows but could not seem to summon up the courage to make its way through them. Instead, a small, shaded lamp illuminated Mary's pensive face as she picked up her fountain pen and began to make notes. Charles allowed himself his habitual allotment of a moment to admire her. He was sure that, had he been of a poetical turn, there would be much to be made of the way the light brought out the gold in her hair, producing the impression of a delicate, diffuse halo; if he were an artist, he might have recognised in her the model for a madonna, her blue eyes contemplating the Child with ineffable tranquility. Charles Parker, however, prided himself on being neither a poet nor an artist, but rather a practical and reliable fellow, and furthermore, he had recently been informed that he stared at Lady Mary like a demented sheep. It cost him little effort, therefore, to reign in the excesses of his romantic imagination, but rather more to suppress his feelings of self-consciousness.

He had just about succeeded when the waiter delivered him to her side. Mary looked up at him, with a pleased smile.

"You're early, Charles," she said, "and I'm frightfully glad of it. Do sit down, I've been longing to speak to someone sensible all morning."

"Oh?" he replied, in what he hoped was a sufficiently unsheeplike fashion. He seated himself opposite her, and did his best to feel comfortable.

"I've just had the most tedious interview with Lydia Fenton, who is _quite_ as air-headed now as ever she was at school." She took out a cigarette, allowed him to light it, and went on. "One would think that even if marriage weren't a steadying influence, motherhood might be. She wants me to decorate the nursery for the new baby, you know. But she has simply no idea of what's involved in bringing up a child, and even less of what might be done with the room. I don't think I'll take it on. I should have to speak to her on a regular basis, and it would be just too awful."

"I shouldn't think it's a good idea, then," he agreed. "Much better not to accept work that you won't enjoy."

"It's not that I shouldn't enjoy the work," Mary said. "I do enjoy it, you know. Work, that is. I hate to feel that I'm useless, although that's just what I was brought up to be. But with Lydia most of the work will be in getting a simple idea into her pretty head and then keeping it there. And if I have to listen to any more of her opinions on children, I shall strangle her, and then you'll be forced to arrest me and I shall go to the gallows, because of course I should confess to you at once, Charles."

"Steady on, Mary" he said, rather disturbed at the idea in itself, as well as by the reminder of what Peter was going through. "You might enjoy your work, but you don't want to become part of mine again."

"Don't I?" she said; and the hard edge in her voice caused him a momentary flutter of alarm, before her mouth quirked a little, and she went on in carefully light tones. "Of course, I shouldn't mind you being part of my work at all, you know, Charles."

He couldn't help but smile back at her. A playful rejoinder about the limited scope interior decoration offered the modern police official for advancement in his profession sprang automatically to his lips; but in the instant before utterance self-consciousness returned, and he remembered precisely what he had set out to do today, and he faltered.

"Charles?" asked Mary, frowning, and putting out her cigarette.

"I've got us a table for lunch," he said, hurriedly. "Perhaps we should head to the restaurant. If you'd like to, that is, I mean to say."

"Here?" she asked slowly, looking at him closely, all too clearly thinking about his salary, and the sorts of luncheons to which it might be expected to stretch. "I thought we had agreed the Savoy was only for special occasions?"

He had been a policeman long enough to know that there were moments in an interview that had to be seized, when the best results could be gained by discarding what you had planned to say and do, and pursuing the line that suddenly presented itself; moments where you were given the key to a new understanding that could change everything if only you could follow through. The recognition of such opportunities was a practical skill, honed over many years, that had not come easily to his prosaic nature. Obviously, then, it was the policeman rather than the poet in him who knew just how to reply.

"I'd like this to be a special occasion, Mary," he said calmly, although in fact this was something he had planned to say over the _pêches melbas_ , and in consequence his heart seemed to beating a little fast at the strain of improvising. And then he had nothing to do but screw his courage to the sticking-place, and go on.

"Will you - Lady Mary - my dear Mary - do me the honour of agreeing to be my wife?"

And before he had time to wonder or worry his heart was beating even faster, with unfamiliar joy, because she was already laughing happily and reaching out for his hand.

"But of course I will, Charles! Yes! Of course! I would have any time these last few years, you know. I was beginning to think you would never ask!" Then she laughed again in delighted frustration and chafed his hand between both of hers, as if she wished to push it away and yet at the same time could not bear to let it go. "You know, my dear, you really are the most perfect Victorian! I can't believe you finally proposed to me somewhere I can't _kiss_ you!"

When it was put to him in that way, Charles felt that he could hardly believe it himself. Kissing being out of the question, he settled for grinning idiotically at her.

"That's what Peter said, too," he agreed. "About being a Victorian, I mean, not the kissing."

She stopped the frenetic chafing of his hand, and squeezed it, gently and warmly, instead.

"We're very alike, Peter and I, you know," she said, her blue eyes smiling earnestly into his.

"Oh - I suppose you are," he allowed tolerantly, still grinning, although in fact it had never particularly occurred to him before; since the Riddlesdale business, Lord Peter and Lady Mary had been entirely distinct, if equally bright, stars in his personal firmament.

"In all the important ways, anyhow," smiled Mary, and squeezed his hand again, pulling it back towards her; and Charles threw propriety to the winds, and leaned in to kiss her.

 

 

 


End file.
